


Out of the Box

by 221BFakerStreet



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BOXES, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Classical conditioning, Conditioning, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Feral Behavior, Gen, I'm Going to Hell, Joseph Seed being a creeper, Manipulation, Master/Pet, Muzzles, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, but i've made my peace with that, everybody gets one, everybody is broken, for that is how he do, i am the Oprah of concerning and upsetting emotional attachments, kind of, the illusion of choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-16 01:47:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BFakerStreet/pseuds/221BFakerStreet
Summary: The first time he lets her out of the Box, she takes a Peggy’s ear clean off. They muzzle her after that, but she can still taste the salt iron tang of his blood, hear his panicked screams of pain. She dreams about it in the dark, until the screams become her own.





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

_“I like boxes because of the secrets they hide.”_

 

_\--Kate Williams_

* * *

The first time he lets her out of the Box, she takes a Peggy’s ear clean off. They muzzle her after that, but she can still taste the salt iron tang of his blood, hear his panicked screams of pain. She dreams about it in the dark, until the screams become her own.

When Jacob comes to see her, it is with a plate of food and a warm wash cloth. She snarls at him like an animal, bearing her teeth. Everything _hurts_ , from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet, naked and caked with mud. She can still think clearly enough to know that she doesn't want him to touch her, not for an instant. He smiles at the look of her, a lopsided thing, handsome if not for the fact of his own self-described history.

“Now, now, little bird,” he says, as though he’s joking with a recalcitrant child, “’m just here to feed you, make sure you haven’t injured yourself.” He sets the food tray to the side on a rock protruding from the ground, balanced just so. She tries not to let her eyes stray from Jacob’s face, but it’s difficult; she hasn’t quite reached the point where she is numb to her own hunger, kept on the edge of survival with scraps- her own instincts working against her. She shakes her head violently, like a dog trying to rid itself of fleas, and Jacob reaches right in through the open door of the Box, his fingers gripping the cage of her muzzle and hauling her forward. Tripping over her own feet, dizzy with the scent of Bliss flowers and fresh air, she stumbles forward into him. His hand leaves her muzzle before she can even respond, grips the back of her neck firmly, supporting.

“You bite me, I’ll end you.” He says this like he is telling her something extra to add to the grocery list, and she believes him with every fiber of her exhausted being. Besides, she thinks with the dregs of her pragmatism, food is fuel for fighting. This moment can be useful if she lets it, and she is so _weak_. A ‘click’ from behind her head, and she is loosed from her bindings. Works her aching jaw, licks at her lips, not for the first time tasting old dried blood- not hers. Jacob sets himself down in the muck with her, unafraid of sullying his outfit, and moves her like a ragdoll so that she sits across his lap, head pillowed on the bulk of his left shoulder.

The pulse point in his neck jumps steady and calm with his heartbeat, and she looks at it longingly. _Too tired_ , she tells herself, _too weak_. But she _wants_ to, until she feels the warm wet press of cloth on her raw skin- first across her mouth, down her cheeks, around her neck. He holds his hand there for a moment too long, pressing down so that her breath catches, and her eyes widen and gather tears at the corners. Blue eyes bore into hers, electric with something so foreign and yet so familiar, and she cannot look away. Eventually he lets go, swiping the now cool cloth down between the swell of her breasts, barely lingering. She is grateful when he brings the mug of warm broth to her lips, tips it gently toward her and she _drinks_ until it’s swiftly pulled away. Her hand lifts minutely as if to grab it but is easily batted away by Jacob’s larger paw.

“Slow,” he says, and she simply nods, and lets him feed her at his pace. When the broth is finished, and her face and hands are clear of the most egregious debris, he stands and lifts her up with him, so easily that it scares her. Not much does that, these days, but she feels so _small_ in his arms.

She doesn’t cry, she tells herself. Not when he carries her back into the Box. Not when he wipes the sweat from her brow. She doesn’t whine like a small scared creature when he clips the muzzle back into place with little effort. She _does_ cry, though, when he kisses her forehead, when she watches him go. Even _she_ can’t live in that much denial. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kept thinking about the movie Unleashed, and then I couldn't stop thinking about it. But also currently obsessed with Far Cry 5, so then this happened. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> There will definitely be more. <3


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

_“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”_

_\--Mary Oliver_

* * *

 

The darkness has befriended her. Nothing is tethered there in the loose configuration of broken constellations she can see through holes in the tarp that stretches over the metal skeleton of the Box, an eerie plastic skin. Daylight hurts her eyes, feels too much like freedom. In the darkness, it’s easy to hide. Jacob only comes to her during the day, and the nights are hers and hers alone. She lies on her pile of blankets- earned one by one each time she completes a task- and tries to remember their names, the constellations. She can't always see them in their entirety, so it becomes a game to catch them out: Ursa Major ( _she wonders what Cheeseburger is up to, if he’s safe_ ), Orion ( _the hunter, the violator, the lover_ ). And there, chained to her throne, sits Cassiopeia, struck down by her pride and her vanity. Rook breathes through the memory of sitting in uncomfortable chairs in a hall bigger than her childhood home as strangers told her stories older than she could imagine at the time. She pushes it down and away from her, into a time where it exists apart from her, who she is now.

Sometimes, in the dark, she forgets her real name. She thinks it’s better this way, maybe. Maybe she doesn’t _have_ a name anymore, doesn’t deserve one. Maybe, she thinks, Jacob will give her a _new_ one. This is the thought she falls asleep with, dreamless and heavy.

Daylight presses against the back of her skull like the muzzle of a gun, and she startles awake to the sound of Jacob and Joseph speaking in hushed voices outside of the Box. The only exit is just a cage door, no false skin, and she can see them through it in blurry patches of black, white, and faded green.

“Ah,” says one of the voices, “I believe your guest is awake.” She recognizes the calm, eerie cadence of Joseph's voice, and struggles to sit upright in her nest. She's been doing her best to always be on guard, but the days slide by in hazy rivulets of time, like raindrops down a window. It's difficult to remember where she is sometimes, but not when she hears _that_ voice. _Now_ she is _awake_.

He smiles at her serenely, and she maneuvers until she's crouched on all fours, like a wild animal ready to pounce.

“Heel!” Jacob's voice is only slightly raised, but she is cowed long enough to see that he has approached the cage door as well. Rook shifts, gaze darting back and forth between them until she settles with a grunt of displeasure.

There’s something almost… pitying about Joseph’s smile now, and it makes Rook want to tear his throat out with her teeth. She thinks of John, arms spread wide as though to embrace the clear blue Montana sky, how she had internally mocked his insights into her particular affliction; thinks about how he’d crow over it to see her now, if he were privy to her thoughts.

“Such a shame,” Joseph states, shaking his head so minutely that she barely catches it. The pounding in her head has diminished into a dull throb, and although she has generally found The Father rather grating at times, she can’t help but find herself soothed in a strange way by his hypnotic voice. “There’s always a better way, Deputy,” he says, half turning to aim his sad smile at his brother, who simply shakes his head and grins, “but we all make our choices, I suppose.”

Rook barks out a raspy laugh at that, covers her muzzle with her hands as though forgetting for just a moment- and the hard look Jacob gives her rattles her more than _any_ speech by the Father could do. Tearing her gaze away is like ripping off skin from a freshly healed wound, and she finds Joseph’s eyes so infuriatingly _empathetic_. As though she’d _had_ a choice; as though _any_ of them had.

A small voice in the back of her head tells her that yes, she _did_ , so many miles behind the forking path which had led her to the Whitetail Mountains. Further, still, to a shiny new badge and a feeling of pride as she accepted her first big job outside of refereeing barroom brawls and shotgun weddings gone awry. This set of handcuffs, that flavor of coffee, the red dress instead of the blue one, and running through the rain to get to class on time; every decision compounding somehow to lead up to this: a cage, a prophet, a soldier, and she at the epicenter- the eye of the storm. There is nothing she can say that won’t give away her thoughts on the subject, so she simply glares harder, as though her gaze itself could fight _for_ her.

She scratches at her head without thought, because it fucking _itches_. Her hair hasn’t been washed in what feels like weeks, hanging in matted brown clumps from her scalp like that of a feral child. She almost can't remember which shade of brown it was before; just mud, now, as though that was all it had _ever_ been. She misses the look Joseph shoots at his brother, busy with the mess of her tender scalp. What she _doesn't_ miss is the curt but soft “take care of that” which Joseph sends his way. Goosebumps rise on her arms, and for a moment she is certain that she is going to die here in a cage, pressed under the heat of a perfect Montana summer.

Then Jacob turns to her, the corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “Time to get you cleaned up, pup.”


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

_“You must empty a box before you fill it again”_

_― Proverb_

* * *

 

She doesn't leave the Box. She's never _going_ to leave the Box. This is what she thinks as one of the guards drags an old wooden chair over the muck and dirt of the floor, right into the center. She grins when she notices the bandage covering his left ear, and the way he leaves just a little _too_ quickly. And she understands, respects a little, even, the fact of his continued survival despite his wound- a trophy of his failure. Real bravery, she thinks, is facing your fears. Rook has stared down the barrel of too many guns wanting to piss her pants to judge him for his fear, but the small amount of power she wields in this moment feels _good_.

When Jacob walks in, her own body betrays her, goes rigid with anxiety and then deflates like a leaking balloon. He's carrying an electric razor. The muzzle comes away and she almost feels naked without it. Jacob takes his place behind her, towering so casually over her smaller frame.

It is the small things that break us. A frown across a crowded room, a casual dig from a loved one at the end of a hard day; a mountain formed from all the little molehills. Rook sits in the chair. She lets Jacob Seed cut away wads of matted hair, and watches as they fall into the cup of her hands. Her nails could use a trim, too, but she says nothing. There is nothing to _say_. The only sound is the crisp ‘snip’ of the scissors and the mingling of their breaths into a singular, even rhythm.

Rook doesn’t even notice that she's crying until the buzzing of the clippers interrupts her stupor, a gasp startled from the back of her throat, rising up like bile, or like the start of a scream. He begins his work anew, rough hands cradling her head, turning her this way and that, brushing his fingers through her hair until all that's left is a close-cropped fuzz. He brushes his fingers through that, too, and she moans in something like pain or ecstasy; the two become one and the same inside of a single, shuddering breath. Jacob stills, hand lightly gripping the back of her neck, and Rook bites her lip to keep from sobbing.

A reprimand from her boss for messing up something he never even trained her to do. The quiet 'whoosh' of the machine that breathed for her grandmother, somehow the loudest sound in the room. Her father's disappointed sigh.

A gentle touch from a cruel man.

It is the small things that break us, in the end.


	4. Chapter 4

_“They gave Pandora a box. Prometheus begged her not to open it. She opened it. Every evil to which human flesh is heir came out of it._

_The last thing to come out of the box was hope. It flew away.”_

_― Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake_

The first time she asks him to stay is the second time he lets her out of the Box. She still has to wear the muzzle, but she's gotten used to it by now. She doesn’t wonder how she's supposed to eat; she's never been allowed out of the Box long enough for that. _Never_. In some other life, some distant time, she might laugh at that. But time _stretches_ inside the Box, endless and lazy and all-encompassing. It devours itself, the ouroboros eating its own tail, looping ever forward, backward, then forward again. There is nothing _but_ time, and with so much of it, it becomes meaningless.

Last time she took part in Psycho Summer Camp, Pratt had been Jacob’s staple whipping boy, and she feels a cold chill at the fact that she hasn’t seen him yet as she is marched down hallway after hallway. She’s a bit afraid to mention it, afraid of what she’ll learn, and she hates that fear less than she used to; it’s become a home, of a kind. The fear is familiar, and the comforting thought that she doesn’t _need_ to know sinks to the bottom of her stomach like a rock and curdles there. She has an inkling that this is the culmination of her training rearing its ugly head: the unwarranted trust that has wormed its way inside of her like a parasite. If she is a _good_ girl, she will be safe. The fact that it’s true, that it’s been _proven_ true, only galls her more.

They arrive at a plain looking room, complete with a table and two chairs bolted down to the floor.

“Sit,” Jacob says, and Rook hesitates for a moment, steps toward the nearest chair. A firm grasp on her shoulder stops her, and she does her best to stand tall, but she _does_ stop. Looks up at Jacob. He nods to the place at the _right_ of the chair, and the stone in her gut sinks even further. She moves without meaning to- her own _legs_ don’t even belong to her, anymore- and settles herself slowly onto her knees, places her hands primly in her lap for lack of anywhere better to put them. She feels more than sees Jacob take the seat beside her, his thigh pressed iron hot against her upper arm, and she cannot stop the shiver that runs down her spine.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his calloused fingers combing gently through her peach fuzz hair, and, God help her, _she leans into it_. He pets her a few more times, like a dog, and she’s so lost in a haze of blind joy at being touched so gently that she doesn’t hear what he says, doesn’t even hear the door open.

A young man- younger than her, probably- is pushed into the room by one of Jacob’s Chosen. His face is locked in some strange sort of rictus, half open-mouthed terror, half snarl. His teeth are so incredibly white, and it’s mesmerizing for just a moment. Rook blinks slowly up at him from her place beside Jacob’s chair. His gaze catches on her, and his face falls, and she can’t quite catch what he’s saying. The soft rumble of Jacob’s voice courses through her as his hand slides down to grip at the back of her neck, warm and tender. The man- boy, really- looks afraid now, and she can’t fathom _why_ because everything is calm- Jacob is _calm_. There is no Box, there is no mud, there is no pain; there is only the quiet hum of Jacob’s voice buzzing like flies in her ear and the word, the _word_ , the one he says only in training- “ _Aus_!” – and the click of her muzzle.

The first time she kills a man for Jacob Seed, he doesn’t use the music box. He doesn’t _need_ to.


End file.
